


you're writing lines about me

by snazzyasalways



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blind Louis, Fan Harry, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 18:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4189989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snazzyasalways/pseuds/snazzyasalways
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is not a writer. But even if Harry could write, he would never have written himself coming face to face with Louis Tomlinson in a Manchester bakery while wearing his best hat that Louis can’t even see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're writing lines about me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Leio_Rossi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leio_Rossi/gifts).



> title is from "is there somewhere" by halsey
> 
> the parts in italics are meant to be excerpts from Louis' books

_the water is blue and"_

_blue and blue_

_"and all i see is the green of you_

-

 

If Harry were the writer of his own life, he would say that he remembered exactly when he found the secondhand book (or third-hand, or fourth-hand, judging by the beat up state of the paperback). He’d say he remembered his age down to the second and the shoes he was wearing and exactly which little thrift shop he’d found it in, abandoned with the rest of someone’s boxed up donation of books they never really planned to read.

 

But Harry is not a writer, let alone the writer of his own story. He’s written for school before, yes, and he’s scribbled down verse in his journal which he only feels a little ashamed of using an entire paycheck from the bakery to buy, but none of this changes the fact that Harry Styles cannot for the life of him remember where he bought the book.

 

The thing is, Harry goes to a lot of secondhand shops. He likes imagining who owned his prized set of silver knives with nutcracker shaped handles before him, and he likes finding things that he knows are worth something priced for pocket change. He honestly can’t fault himself for not remembering at which one he’d caught sight of the little five by seven book with the blue and gold cover and bought it on a whim after barely flipping through it.

 

The book, to Harry, is worth something. He’d bought it for seventy pence from the bargain bin, because the store - whichever one it had been - hadn’t known what to do with a little book of poetry from a then unknown writer and Harry hadn’t known what he was getting into when he picked it up.

 

He doesn’t read it until one day he sees the name Louis Tomlinson in the paper. 

 

It’s a tiny editorial column on something sports related, and Harry’s only reading the paper to get out of having to talk to his sister about her blind date from the night before, and it takes him a second to place the name before it clicks that this Louis Tomlinson - unless there is an unprecedented abundance of them that he isn’t aware of - is, most likely, the same Louis Tomlinson whose name is printed on the cover of _breath twenty eight_ , the little book he’d kept stacked in a little pile by his bedside.

 

He reads the entire book that evening, skipping dinner to read the lines over and over. His mother is worried. She knocks at the door and he opens it long enough to tell her he’s not dead.

 

“Should be proud, Mum,” he tells her, pushing his hair out of his eyes so she can see him in proper. “Look at me, reading, not even for school.” He gives a grin to show the excitement he hopes she’s mirroring. She does, smiling back and leaning up to kiss his forehead. 

 

“I’ll put your portion in the fridge, love, but don’t forget to eat it.” Anne says as she heads back downstairs. She knows a losing battle when she sees one and Harry is still gripping the book half open as he shuts the door behind himself.

 

-

 

Three weeks later, he’s bought the entire collection.

 

It’s a small collection as it is, and Louis Tomlinson proves to be significantly harder to track down than Harry would like. He hasn’t got a wikipedia page, and the closest to an article about him that Harry can find is a smattering of announcements, proclaiming Louis Tomlinson as the winner for a variety of small presses.

 

The collection so far consists of the original book of poems, an issue of a poetry magazine that Harry had to buy off of ebay, two literary journals with submissions from Louis Tomlinson, his name simple and silver on the back cover of each, and another collection of poetry that Harry had called around to local and semi local libraries to locate.

 

The new proper book is called _tessellate_ , and Harry has been rationing it. He reads one poem every two nights as a reward for getting things done, or after a long day at work, or after an exam, and he knows one day he’ll run out of words but that’s something to think about later.

 

The completion of his collection seems to pale in comparison to Harry’s newfound knowledge about limited print runs. He learns that both the new and the older book only had one hundred or so copies printed, and that he found both of them within an hour of his house should mean that perhaps, perhaps, if Louis Tomlinson isn’t some enigma that doesn’t actually exist, there’s a chance he also exists within an hour of Harry’s house.

 

Not that Harry plans to stalk him. He really, really doesn’t. But it’s just so frustrating, knowing nothing at all about the person whose changed Harry’s life in less than a month with only a handful of words. He feels like maybe he’d never seen colour the way that he does now, now that he’s read Louis’ work, but that’s how Harry gets with art. In third form, he’d thought that The Script probably existed just to show him how love looked in verse.

 

It’s too dense thinking for breakfast with his mum and sister, so he closes his book, three more poems left unread, and puts a pin in the thoughts for the drive he has to work.

 

-

_you take a breath, blow"_

_condensation in the winter_

_wind, i’ve got you_

_"under my skin again_

-

 

“I’m going to read it back to you, okay?” Harry says, the receiver of the phone tucked between his ear and his shoulder. He twirls the cord with one hand, the other going down the list he’s written, blue pen caught between his first finger and thumb. “Four chocolate cupcakes with vanilla frosting, four vanilla cupcakes with chocolate frosting, and a dozen chocolate peanut butter, right?”

 

The customer on the other line makes a noise of affirmation, and Harry rattles off the price estimate and when she can come pick it up. He’s the only one in the bakery - a little storefront in Manchester about a block from the opera house - his only coworker for the day, Niall, having gone to deliver a cake order. But it’s been an hour since Niall left, and Harry wonders if he hasn’t taken a detour to see his girlfriend on the clock.

 

The bell over the bakery door rings as a customer comes in, and Harry finishes up on the phone, leaving the filled out order slip in its proper envelope so the cupcake froster can see it when he comes in. He hangs up by pressing the button on the base, as he’s somehow managed to tangle himself up in the coiled cord.

 

“Two seconds,” Harry says, untangling himself from the phone cord as fast as possible. He clings to the dim hope that perhaps the customer hadn’t been looking and maybe had missed Harry wrapping himself in the phone like a botched christmas present. It’s a slim chance, but he’s clung to smaller.

 

“Take your time, take your time, got a few questions when you’re decent,” he hears the thickly accented voice of the other man in the room say as he’s setting the phone back on the cradle. He finally turns around, eyes locking on the slight man lingering near the display cases.

 

“All good,” he says, walking over and leaning on the glass of the display case. The man doesn’t meet Harry’s eyes quite, and he’s halfway to considering it an offense when he looks down and catches sight of the white cane the man’s got in his hand, moving it just minutely in little half circles as he stands there. “How can I help?”

 

“It’s my sister’s birthday,” the man starts, brushing his fringe out of his eyes and tilting his head up, probably to be polite. He isn’t wearing any sort of glasses, and Harry is almost struck by the blue of his eyes. Not too struck to focus on his job, however. “My mum’s got the car running outside, and I wondered if it’s at all possible for me to get a dozen cupcakes without an order.”

 

“Has to be some we’ve got on hand in the display, but yeah, mate, can do that.” Harry says. He waits about a second, then fixes his hat and coughs to fill silence when he realises he’d been waiting for the man to look at the display. “Shit, sorry. Here, d’you want me to tell you what we’ve got stocked?” He asked, kneeling a little to look at the cupcakes.

 

“That’d be brill, less you’ve got a braille menu by coincidence.” Harry grins, then laughs when he realises the man won’t hear just a smile. He lists out the cupcakes they have until he’s cut off. “Can stop there, yeah, red velvet’s her favourite. I’ll take twelve, if you’ve got it.”

 

“Not a problem at all,” Harry says. He boxes them up nicely, twelve red velvet cupcakes tucked into the box border to border like a honeycomb, and slips the box into a bag so that there’s less chance of dropping them. “Can take your payment whenever you’re ready, then. Um, the cash register is- it’s, go about three steps to your right and you’ll be there.” He dictates slowly.

 

“It’s not cash only, is it? You take plastic?” The man asks as he steps over, stopping just beside the cash register. 

 

“Absolutely take plastic. Although if you’ve got a big fancy express spender’s credit card, I’ll be a bit miffed that you’re only buying a doz.” Harry teases. 

 

“No, no, just a normal bank card. Shit, I wish it was fancier.” The man laughs, his face going into a proper wide smile where his eyes scrunch up a little bit. It’s times like this that Harry wishes he could write, wishes he could look at the world like the author of the books at the top of his backpack can, but instead, he focuses on what he can do. The man takes his card from his pocket, looking up as he holds it out, and at first, Harry stumbles on those blue, blue eyes.

 

Then, he catches himself on the name on the debit card. The embossed letters on the little blue bank card are almost perfectly reminiscent of those on the cover of _tessellate_ , except here, there’s a ‘W.’ between Louis Tomlinson’s first and last name. Even if Harry could write, he would never have written himself coming face to face with Louis Tomlinson in a Manchester bakery while wearing his best hat that Louis can’t even see.

 

“Sorry, um, I’m not holding it out to nothing, right? You’d tell me if I had my hand out to nowhere like a proper tit, right?” Louis Tomlinson says, waving his card a little. Harry takes it from him and shakes his head a little - partially for an effect he knows he misses, partially just to clear his head. He’s so star struck that his hands are sweat slick.

 

“I’ve got it, no, not looking like a tit at all,” Harry says. He swallows hard around the lump in his throat. It’s a now or never moment if he’s ever had one. He runs the card through the machine slowly. “Um, not to be- sorry, I just caught the name on your card and I’ve actually read your work before, your writing. I’m a big fan.” Louis tilts his head up again and quirks his eyebrows.

 

“Are you really?” He says, quiet, sounding a bit like he’d been caught in the rain with no umbrella. “Got to say, never been recognized before. Thought that was just for pop stars or summat.” There’s a silence, and Harry realises Louis is waiting for him to speak. Or possibly finish his transaction so he can get out of there as soon as possible.

 

“I’m half through your latest collection now, I’m kind of - you know, trying not to read them all at once. Probably wouldn’t have recognized the name if it hadn’t been for, like, I was reading it on the train today.” Louis still looks a little stunned, his head tilted, his eyes unfocused toward the display case. “If it’s no trouble, I’ve actually got it here in my bag if - I mean, if you wouldn’t mind signing it, maybe?”

 

“No trouble, no trouble.” Louis says, and Harry ducks under the desk to get his book from his backpack. “Have you got a name I should make it out to? Can’t guarantee it’ll be legible.”

 

“Harry,” says Harry. He sets the book on the counter, opening it to the blank page at the front. He takes the pen he uses for marking cups for drink orders and puts it in Louis’ hand, uncapped. “I’ll let you go after this, sorry for interrupting your day.”

 

“Not an interruption, Harry, not at all. Wasn’t expecting it in the slightest, to be honest, but it’s all fine.” Louis fiddles with the pen a little bit before starting to write on the page, forming a mostly legible and barely overlapping sentence and ending off with his signature. “Glad you like the work so much. And glad to take a few seconds away from the car, me mum’s in full party planning mode.” He hands Harry the pen and the book and Harry is still so starstruck he almost forgets to hand Louis back his card.

 

“Thanks so much,” he says, putting the book back in his backpack and moving to hand Louis his cupcakes. When he’s sure they’re securely in Louis’ hands, Harry steps back a bit. He hopes his smile translates to his voice. “Tell your sister happy birthday for me, then.”

 

“Ta, mate, can you just point me to the door?” Louis asks. It’s so charming and casual that Harry almost can’t connect this Louis Tomlinson to the author of all of those beautiful words in his bag, but at the same time, there’s an undeniable link there. He wants to hear Louis’ words in the man’s own voice sometime, but this is a chance meeting and he knows the possibility of seeing each other again is small.

 

“Yeah, course, it’s directly behind you, like- turn and I’ll say stop?” He tries. Louis laughs, but does as he says, turning around until Harry signals. He watches Louis walk to the door, white cane sweeping over the ground in little half circles again, and he’s speaking before he can catch himself and button his mouth. “We’ve got great coffee here,” he blurts out, “if you’re ever in the area, if you ever want to come and have some, like, with me or anything.” Louis stops and turns his head like he wants to hear better.

 

“See you next time I’m in the area, then,” Louis says, and then he leaves like he was never there to begin with.

 

-

_you tell her it’s"_

_;something in the water_

_a change in the tides and_

_those blue waves could_

_;wash you both away_

_".part of you hopes they will_

-

 

It takes another two and a half weeks for Louis to be in the area again. Not that Harry’s counting. He comes in half way through Harry’s shift, sunglasses perched on his nose and a loose brand tee shirt hanging on his frame. 

 

“Didn’t think you’d take me up on the coffee, to be honest,” Harry says, smiling and putting his hands in his pockets. Louis laughs and walks over until his cane brushes the display case. 

 

“My editor’s a few blocks away, had a meeting and figured, you know, why not.” Louis says. “You made such a good sell on the coffee. Have you considered working in marketing?” He asks. It feels like they’ve been acquaintances - if not friends - for much longer than two weeks, and Harry sets about making two cups of coffee. “Two sugars and cream, if you have it.”

 

“Coming up,” Harry says. When he finishes, he comes out from behind the counter and sets the cups on a table. He comes back over to Louis and carefully brushes his hand over Louis arm. “Gonna take you over to the table, if that’s okay.” He knows Louis can probably navigate himself, especially if he walked over here from wherever his editor’s office was, and the last thing he wants is to be patronising, so it means even more when Louis nods and goes a little boneless so Harry can lead him.

 

“A proper caretaker, you are. You seem like you work with old people or babies.” Louis says as Harry guides him to his chair and even pushes it in. He goes over and sits across the table from Louis.  “Careful or I’ll have you carrying me next time.”

 

“Tell me if the coffee’s okay, this batch was weirdly light.” Harry says just to say something. He’s still so in awe that this is Louis Tomlinson, that he’s real and he exists and he’s probably working on more writing with his editor. It makes Harry feel important on a cosmic level that he gets to sit here with him. 

 

“Tastes fine, I like my coffee to taste mostly like cream and sugar.” Louis admits. “How did you find my books, then? I asked my editor, I’m only stocked in a few local stores around Manchester and then back in Donny.” Harry looks down, swirls his coffee with his stir stick.

 

“I found a copy of _breath twenty eight_ in a thrift shop in Chester, I think, and then I got the rest of your things from the internet, mainly.” He decides to leave out that he’d driven an hour and a half in his sister’s car to buy _tessellate_ from a library down near Wolverhampton. 

 

“Shit, have you really got all of it then? That shit piece I did for that quarterly haunts me daily, can’t believe I wrote that and can’t believe they actually published it and at no point did anyone tell me it was horribly derivative.” Louis swears into his coffee cup, pushing up his sunglasses so they don’t tip into his paper disposable mug.

 

“Was that the one with the Poe references?” Harry asks, trying to seem a bit more like he doesn’t know exactly the one Louis’ talking about. “I liked that one. You’re amazing. The way you see the world is just-” he cuts himself off with a little cough, and Louis laughs, too loud and too much for the room and Harry is nothing short of enamoured.

 

“The way I see the world is proper nothing, so.” Louis says, not sounding dry or bitter at all. “The way I _view_ the world, which is maybe what you mean, is just,” he shrugs a little. “I dunno. I just write things the way that I feel them, you know? Writing is all about sound and all about message and that’s kind of how I am, I guess.”

 

“That makes sense,” Harry says. He sips at his own coffee, just looking at Louis. It’s a luxury, he thinks, getting to experience Louis in this way. “It’s just, like, the way you write about color is amazing to me, especially since-”

 

“Since I’ve never seen it?” Louis finishes. Harry nods, then makes a little noise of agreement. “Yeah, was proper born this way, so I haven’t really got a clue what color actually is, but,” he shrugs again, “it is what it is. I’ve got an upper hand there, kind of. Can describe it any way I want since the only way I’ve really experienced it is through people telling me. Like, I know my cane’s white, my eyes are blue, yours are…?”

 

“Green.” Harry fills in. “That’s a really beautiful way of thinking about it.” 

 

“Thanks,” Louis says. “Bet you liked that one poem about green eyes in _twenty eight_ , yeah?”

 

It’s one of Harry’s favourites. However, he thinks he likes talking to Louis more than all of his favourite poems combined.

 

“Should I pay for my coffee now, or after I finish it?” Louis asks. 

 

“Don’t worry about it, it’s on me.”

 

“Careful there, Harry,” Louis says, pushing his sunglasses onto his head, his blue, blue eyes just missing Harry’s face. “If you pay, might be seen as a date.”

 

Harry doesn’t mind at all.

 

-

_it’s a short ride to camden town"_

_red train, red gloves, red rimmed eyes_

_goodbyes don’t have a color but you wish_

_this time_

_"you could see the shade of winning_

-

 

Harry tells his sister that it isn’t really a thing, there really isn’t anything special going on, but Louis finds himself in Manchester more often and Harry finds himself spending too much time looking at Louis’ eyes. He’s got Niall covering for him at the shop and they’re taking coffee at the stretch of grass by Hardman Square. 

 

“Can you please? Just one of them, any one of them. Your favourite one.” Harry asks. He’s laying back with his head propped up on his arms and Louis is sat off to his side, Harry’s apron underneath him to protect him from grass stains.

 

“I don’t like looking back at my work, Harold. Once it’s edited, it’s done, it’s out of my control, I don’t like to read it anymore.” Louis says adamantly, but he’s grinning and Harry is too. It’s been a couple of weeks since Harry finished reading the lasts of his collection of Louis’, and if he can’t get any new poetry, he thinks maybe hearing one of his favourites in Louis’ voice might make up for it.

 

“I’m leaving you a terrible review on goodreads, I’m going to tell all your fans how terrible you are at fan service.” Harry teases. Louis laughs at him, pulling his briefcase in closer and unzipping it.

 

“Could read you something I’m still working on, if you really want me to.” Louis says. He pulls out a folder and takes out a stiff piece of a card stock; Harry can see through the light shining through the back of the paper the little embossed bumps of something written in braille. “I’ve only got a bit of this one, started it last night.”

 

“Do you mean it?” Harry asks. He leans up onto his elbows, feeling the thick knit of his sweater dig into his skin, the morning dew on the grass wetting the yarn. He hardly registers the discomfort, too stunned with the honor Louis is offering him. 

 

“Yeah, I showed it to my editor and he said it seemed like it was going somewhere. Well, okay, I showed it to my editor and he said ‘Louis, I still can’t read those fucking bumps’, but he said it sounded nice when I read it out.” Harry laughs while Louis is still talking, and he nods out of a habit he hasn’t quite broken yet.

 

“I’d be honoured.” He says. He sits up so he can pay attention, feeling almost buzzed at the prospect of hearing more from Louis, and hearing it in his voice. The thought that he’ll be hearing something new and unfinished and raw gets him in a way he can’t put his finger on.

 

“Okay,” Louis says, clearing his throat and reaching down, his fingertip searching the paper for the start of it. “So, so far, I’ve got-” he clears his throat again, “-‘ _your hands and my hands, i can taste your laugh on the back of my tongue like a sun-shower. this is better than gospel, better than an umbrella in the indigo of a storm, you’ve got rocks in your shoes to anchor us down and i’ve got the lightning in your eyes and the green glowing back at me._ ’” He coughs a bit. “It’s- it’s a work in progress.”

 

Harry doesn’t say anything for a second; _can’t_ say anything for a second. It’s so much different, hearing the lilt of Louis’ voice driving the words. He wonders what it’s about. He wonders if he dares to think it’s about him.

 

“That’s beautiful.” He says finally. It’s all he can really say, looking up at Louis through the front curls of his hair. “Is it- I mean, is it about anything? Never really asked you about, like, where you get your inspiration.” Louis puts the card stock back in the folder and fumbles to push his bag open, slipping the folder back inside.

 

“Guess I just get it from the people around me, you know. Mix of experiences and things that feel right.” Louis leans back, his green sweater matching the green of the grass, his breath making little puffs of grey in the winter air. “As for what it’s about, I mean,” he tilts his head to face Harry. “You tell me, green eyes.” 

 

It’s like a shift in the air or a change in the tides inside of Harry, and he lays back too, his head against Louis’ head like he’s trying to draw from it, trying to see inside and feel the world like Louis does.

 

Harry is not a writer, but even if he were, he doesn’t think he could write a more perfect storyline for his life than falling in love with Louis Tomlinson.

 

-

_,you tell me it’s simple"_

_chemical, and i’ve got iron_

_locking down my lungs so i don’t tell you_

_i don’t know if i’d tasted love until i_

_"saw green eyes_

**Author's Note:**

> please forgive me for the pretentious nature of this and have a great day (:


End file.
